


The Girl in the Graveyard

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autumn, F/M, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 13:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: The cemetery’s totally empty at this hour—just him and the dead, safely under the earth, right where they should be—and utterly still, not even a breeze to rustle the leaves or send the bare tree branches waving. Yes, it’s unnerving that he can hear his own heart beating in his ears. But that’s not exactly evidence of the supernatural. Probably. He darts his gaze to the left, then to the right, but sees nothing more ominous than a long row of neat, square tombstones and, at the end of the row next to the path, a bench.And a girl, sitting on the bench.Which is a bit of a surprise.





	The Girl in the Graveyard

Jasper’s phone buzzes three times before he’s even finished lacing up his shoes, but he doesn’t glance at it until he’s pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, until he’s halfway down the front walk to the street.  

The first message is from Monty, predictably. All it says is _where r u??_   

The second is from Miller: _This party has officially reached must-be-here status stop missing out._

And from Raven: _Took roll and u were missing. What’s up????_

He doesn’t answer any of them, just shoves his phone back in his pocket and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. Somehow, without him noticing, late afternoon has turned into early dusk. The sky is light gray distorted by darker gray clouds, and the morning’s wind has knocked another flurry of burnt orange and red leaves down from the trees. He toes through them, sending them rushing up over his sneakers in little gusts, and plans out his route to Clarke’s. Twenty minutes by his usual path, give or take. Not that long. Not long at all. 

His phone buzzes again. 

Two pics in quick succession: one of Miller, Bryan, Raven, Octavia, and Harper dancing; the second of Clarke playing quarters—and winning, apparently, Bellamy standing next to her looking reluctantly impressed. Then a text: _Bellamy is here and Miller is dancing. COME OVER._

“Thanks, Monty,” he mumbles, and is about to put his phone back when another message appears. 

_just take the shortcut_

Jasper shakes his head hard. The worst decision the Jordans ever made was buying a house next to a cemetery, and not just because any number of manifestations of the undead could be right outside his window on any given night. Because the cemetery is between him and _everything_ : school, most of his friends’ houses, the movie theater, the Mexican place with the good guacamole. But it doesn’t matter how relentlessly Monty teases him about it, he’s not stepping through those gates. Not for the party of the century, not even for the party of the _millennium_. 

_no way_ he shoots back. 

He waits a moment, and then:  

_judging you so hard right now_

What a surprise. 

He’s about to type out a response when the words _ghosts aren’t real_ pop up on his screen. 

_that’s what they want you to think_

For a few moments, he’s sure the conversation’s been dropped and he can continue on his way, walking all the faster for not having to type, when he hears another buzz. 

_Raven and Octavia are inventing a new dance and Lincoln and Clarke are having an art-off_

And at that point, he’s pretty sure that the rest of his walk will be nothing but guilt-inducing text-updates unless he cuts through ghost-town, so he hesitates, right at the crossroads of, on the one hand, continuing straight and walking around, and on the other, turning left and cutting through. 

He bounces up and down on his heels a few times, thinking. Then— 

_ok I’ll be there in ten_

_that’s my boy_

* 

_Okay_ , he tells himself, as he jumps over the low stone wall that rings the graveyard, the one he always tells himself keeps the ghosts safely fenced in. _Okay, okay, okay, okay. You’re fine it’s all good okay cool_. 

This mantra takes him about ten feet down the path into the heart of the undead before the words _okay_ and _fine_ start to lose all meaning. Then he stops himself up short and forces himself to look around. It’s true that nothing weird has happened yet. The cemetery’s totally empty at this hour—just him and the dead, safely under the earth, right where they should be—and utterly still, not even a breeze to rustle the leaves or send the bare tree branches waving. Yes, it’s unnerving that he can hear his own heart beating in his ears. But that’s not exactly evidence of the supernatural. Probably. He darts his gaze to the left, then to the right, but sees nothing more ominous than a long row of neat, square tombstones and, at the end of the row next to the path, a bench. 

And a girl, sitting on the bench. 

Which is a bit of a surprise. 

She's about his age, he'd guess, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and pretty. So pretty. Something maybe the slightest bit off about her—maybe it's that her blue sundress and sandals seem too summery for the season, or that her hair style and the way she places her hands in her lap seem old-fashioned, impossibly careful and precise. Maybe it's how still she's sitting, how perfectly she's posed. He watches for several long moments before he sees her slowly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.  

Then, as if distracted, as if suddenly aware of a slight noise or a movement barely visible in the corner of her eye, she looks up. She looks up and right at him. 

He jumps—that’s real, she really startled him, and when her gaze meets his a shiver runs down his arms and back and goosebumps rise up on his skin—then makes a joke of it. He exaggerates looking over each shoulder and then pointing to himself, like he’s wondering if she’s really focused on him, or on someone else, some invisible person in this empty, quiet graveyard where they are, all alone. 

She smiles, like she actually thinks he’s funny. 

It’s a little unexpected and a little great and for a moment, he completely forgets where he is, because the pretty girl is standing up and walking over to him. 

“Hey,” he says, raising one hand in a nervous approximation of a wave. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to stare. I just didn’t expect to see anyone else out here tonight.” 

“Neither did I,” the girl answers. “I guess you startled me a bit.” Then she holds out her hand and adds, “I’m Maya.” 

“Jasper.” Her hand in his sends another shiver through him, just like the one he felt when he first caught sight of her on the bench, but he still draws back only with reluctance. “Ah—cold hands. Do you want my jacket…?” 

He starts to shrug it off but she shakes her head. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not cold. My hands are always like that.” She fiddles with the buttons on her sweater. “Low vitamin D.” 

It’s a weird thing to say but he pretends it’s not, just pulls his jacket back on and tries to be casual. Totally cool. Then, to have something to say: “I bet we're the only two people in the whole cemetery.”  

He doesn’t mean it to sound flirty and he really, really doesn’t mean it to sound creepy—which he realizes almost immediately that it probably does, coming from some random guy she’s only known for thirty seconds. He's just so glad to see another human being. He’s so _relieved_ to realize he’s not alone with the dead, waiting for the first appearance of the undead. 

Maya doesn’t seem weirded out, though. She only shoots him a friendly smile and answers, “I think that means we should walk together.” Then she links her arm through his, which, quite honestly, is much more than he ever thought would happen. 

Jasper’s still trying to get his tongue to work enough to form words—words hopefully somewhere in the vicinity of cool—when Maya says, “I thought I was the only one who liked spending my evenings in places like this.” 

“You might be.” He glances over at her, then adds, “I’m just taking a short cut. I live back there,” he nods his head back in the direction of his house, “and I’m heading to a party at my friend Clarke’s house. She throws these big Halloween bashes every year. They’re kind of legendary.” 

"A Halloween party? And what's your costume?" She reaches up and taps at his goggles, perched on top of his head. "Scuba diver? Mad scientist?" 

"It's...not a costume party, actually," he admits, and then, trying to shove away the awkwardness he feels, he grins wide, declares, "I'm a mad scientist in real life," and pulls his goggles down over his eyes. 

Even through them, he can tell she's smiling. "And what sort of macabre activities does this mad scientist get up to?" 

He waits a long moment, to build suspense, then bursts the bubble of it with a shrug of his shoulders, pushing his goggles back up into his hair again. "Mostly silly experiments in the chem labs after school. I guess I'm more of a part-time mad scientist, part-time high school student." This is going so much better than he could have anticipated. He doesn't even know what _this_ is, even, except that it's pleasant and sweet, the way their feet walk together in step, the way she hums a little and bites her lip when he asks, "What about you?" 

"Well," she says slowly, "I guess you could say I'm a part-time student, part-time art enthusiast." 

"You'd love Clarke, then," Jasper tells her. "She's an artist. And she's slowly turning her room into a mini-museum." His brows furrow for a moment, and he amends, "Her whole house, actually."  

Their conversation is so simple and so easy, the way she looks at him so genuine and soft, that it's all too easy to believe it never has to end. It's easy to get caught up and just say, without thinking, "You should meet her. You should come with me, to the party." 

It turns out this was the wrong thing to say. 

Maybe he sounded too enthusiastic. Or maybe he misread the situation in some other way. Because her face falls, and she tries not to let it, and there's something false and forced in the way she brushes the suggestion off: "I—can't. I'm sorry. I just don't think I can. But I want to hear more about them. Tell me all about your friends, Jasper." 

The moment isn't easy to recover from, but he tells himself to brush it off. She's already being super-nice, walking with him through zombie-ville. And in the growing gloom, her skin pale and otherworldly as the moon starts to peer out at them in the dusk-blue sky, he's more aware than ever of just how alone they are, and almost has to wonder why she seems so calm. He still has a bit of the jitters, and she probably has more reason to be creeped out right now than he does. 

He takes a moment to clear his throat and wallow in his awkward uncertainty, and then just starts saying the first words that come to mind. Which is usually a pretty bad idea, but it seems to work for him this time. The stilted moment of his rejection fades away as quickly as it first popped up, and seems to leave no scars between them. 

"Well, my best friend is Monty. He is pretty much the best person you could ever meet. And the smartest. And possibly the most dangerous. I don't mean that in a—just that he's a hacker and not afraid to tell people when he doesn't like them."  

Maya's looking at him like he's grown another head, probably because he just admitted to being best friends with a surly criminal. So he tries for a bit more context. 

"He's—the first person you'd want on your side in a prank war, and the first person you'd want to spend a lazy Sunday with." He doesn't add that their lazy Sundays usually involve getting high, partly because she seems like a nice girl, and partly because she's probably already pegged him for a stoner, anyway. Most people do. "And—I already told you about Clarke. She and Bellamy are kind of the parents of the group. They're both incredibly competitive and totally protective. And I already said that Clarke throws these huge parties—Bellamy actually came to this one, apparently, which probably means his sister dragged him there. Or Clarke bribed him. Hey, I'm sorry," he cuts himself off abruptly, and almost stops in his tracks, too. "I think this is starting to sound like rambling." 

"It's not," Maya answers, and gives his arm a squeeze. "I asked, didn't I?" 

"Yeah, but I want to hear about you." This isn't even an excuse to protect himself from the possibility of any embarrassing admissions. He really does want to know more about who she is. 

And she nods and looks like she's about to speak, but it takes her a long moment, during which she stares straight ahead and the only sound is the crackle of leaves crunching underneath their feet. 

"I live with my father," she says finally. "My mom died when I was little so it's always been just the two of us. In our little house. In our little town. I've never gotten to travel much, but I think about it a lot—I think about how great it would be to visit Europe and spend whole days walking through museums or sitting at cafes..." She looks up at him, and her smile is so wistful that he feels suddenly and completely as if her sadness were his sadness, her longing his longing. 

He's never been to Europe either, but if he had, he'd tell her all about it. Hell, he'd hop on a plane with her right now so they could travel the whole continent together, if she asked. 

"I think that sounds great," he answers, and he's just about to ask if she thinks she'll ever do it, just _go_ , when his phone buzzes again in his pocket, and for a moment, he's so lost that he has no idea what the noise even _is_. 

"What is that?" Maya asks. 

He stops where he's walking, her arm still in his, and pulls out his phone with his free hand. "Um—just a text. From Monty. He wants to know where I am." 

What Monty actually said was _you're still not here, please don't tell me you're taking the long way AGAIN_ but Maya doesn't need to hear that whole story. 

Jasper's started typing out _hold your metaphorical horses green_ when he hears, next to him, Maya's gentle voice announce: "You're at the gates." 

And so he is. 

He's a bit startled to see them, looming up in front of him, that simple wrought iron structure that forms the gateway between the living and the dead. But he's even more startled to realize he's sad to have reached the end of the cemetery path. 

Maya has let go of his arm and wandered toward one of the gravestones in the row closest to the gate. She rests her hand on it lightly but she's looking, not at the stone itself, but at the gate and the wall and the city street beyond. Jasper stares at her profile for a long moment that feels like a short eternity and then he just says it, because he knows almost nothing about her, not even her last name, and he's pretty sure this is a now or never sort of thing: 

"Seriously, you should come with me. Clarke won't mind and it'll be fun. Please." 

She just shakes her head slowly and won't look at him. "I really can't, Jasper. I'm sorry." 

That doesn’t sound like a polite brush off. It sounds like something else, but he has no idea what. All he knows is that he's pushed enough, as much as he can without definitely becoming a creep, which means that this is really goodbye. 

"Okay," he answers slowly, and walks over to stand next to her. He takes her hand in his. "Let me say thank you, at least. I know this is going to sound..." He lets out a long breath, reluctant and embarrassed, self deprecating, and rolls his eyes briefly up. "I know this is going to sound stupid, but I have this thing about cemeteries. That I hate them, specifically. They really freak me out. But walking through this one with you...I hardly even thought about where I was." 

He's expecting she'll laugh at him: it's such a silly and irrational fear, and everyone he knows has given him grief about it already. But when Maya finally turns to look at him again, her expression is as soft as it was before, and her smile is understanding. "That's not stupid at all," she says, and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Her skin is so very cold, and she's so close and so real and yet so distant, too, in a way he cannot name.  

He's shocked when he feels a soft kiss against his cheek.  

"I know just how you feel," she says. "I was scared of cemeteries too when I was alive." 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a retelling of a ghost story told to me by my mother. She heard it from her father, but she doesn't know where he learned it, and though I've tried vaguely to find out more about it, that's as far as I've been able to trace its origins. I've changed a lot from the original but the core idea--and the ending--remain the same.


End file.
